


The Red Chair

by Cartopathy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Meta, Mind Palace, Pining, Romantic Sherlock, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:32:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cartopathy/pseuds/Cartopathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is trying to solve a case, but finds himself interminably distracted by John's empty chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Chair

Sherlock curls up in his chair, head on the armrest and there it is again, that damn red chair covered in that damn checked blanket. Checked like those shirts John's always wearing. 

But he closes his eyes, searching his mind palace for information about the case at hand. His brain scurries through empty rooms until he finds himself at Baker Street. The room in his mind looks exactly like the one he is surrounded by. He is sitting up, in the palace, and stares toward the kitchen, trying not to see that chair. “Why can't I think?”

And then Mycroft is sitting in the red chair. “Why can't people just think?” He grips his umbrella and taps it against the floor.

“Shut up Mycroft. You aren't helping.” Head in hands, elbows on knees.

“I am, Sherlock. Remember? I'm the smart one. You just aren't listening.” He smiles his pursed lip smile.

Sherlock yells and shakes his head. Mycroft is gone, but The Woman is sitting in the chair. “Tell me the story. I love detective stories.” She crosses her arms over her bare chest and leans forward, elbows dimpling her bare thighs. “What's the mystery?”

“You're in my way. I can't see. It's hateful.” He stands up and grabs her wrists, pulling her from the chair. 

She stands naked before him. “Hateful? But you aren't sitting down any more.”

He stares in her eyes. His brows furrow. 

“Hate is a paralytic. Love is a much more powerful motivator.”

He yells, throwing his hands in the air. “Why is everyone talking about the taxi driver case?”

There is Mycroft, in the doorway. “Tsk, tsk. Sherlock. Still not paying attention, are we?”

Irene turns to look at the chair. Mycroft clears his throat. 

“What are you even doing here, Mycroft. This isn't your natural milieu.” 

“You know why I'm here. You've known for some time, now.” He motions his umbrella toward the red chair. 

Sherlock turns to the chair, and the three stare at it in silence. 

Irene steps forward, strokes his cheek. “What do you say?”

His eyes narrow. “You think I should move it upstairs.”

She says, “I don't think so, do you?”

He leaves the palace and opens his eyes to the empty chair in the dingy room.

* * * 

Sherlock tosses in bed. His thoughts are lolling like a drunk man's head. He drifts, awake now, and then asleep, or the other way around. He is between realms like a ghost. _Like that ghost-man who never called to say why. Why did he disappear?_

Irene is sitting in John's chair again asking, “Am I a pretty lady?”

Sherlock shrugs and shakes his head. “I dunno, I dunno. Madonna?”

“I'm not asking about Madonna.”

Is he awake now? He feels awake, but it must be a dream because that chair is beside his bed, and it's never been there before, and these deductions presenting themselves, they are part of the dream, too. 

Chair? Sitty thing? Sleeeeeeep.

He remembers these deductions, from that other chair. The ghost man. _Why didn't he call to say goodbye?_

The game is on, he can feel it, that rush coursing through veins as he works tirelessly toward the epiphanic end. _What next?_ He needs his tools. He mutters half asleep, “just whip'iss out.” 

When he reaches for the magnifying glass, his arm really moves and he shocks himself awake. A quick pulse is running through his veins, like he and John through the streets of London. _If the game is on, then why does it hurt so much?_

The chair. He notices it from the corner of his eye, and turns slowly toward it. Eyes close, drowsy, and Mycroft stands beside the chair. Eyebrows arch. “It's only a dream, Sherlock. You might as well.”

Sherlock fights himself awake “It's not a dream, Mycroft.” He stands and pulls his dressing gown tight. _But he said he doesn't mind._ His feet slink through carpet, carrying an unsteady body to the soft cushion. He melts into the chair, its arms snug around his fetal body. Sleep takes him to a dreamless realm.


End file.
